Backlash Tender Trap Aftermath - Lisa Jackson Page 0,24

horse.”

“I don’t know, Tessa,” her father said, leaning back in his chair to study her. “You love those horses you plan on sellin’. Seems to me you aren’t thinkin’ straight. But then maybe you can’t when Denver McLean’s around.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. You seem to lose all your common sense when that man looks your way.” Disgusted, he took another bite.

“So do you,” she pointed out. “Denver won’t like it that you’re not working. Mitchell and I can’t cover for you all the time.”

“Don’t bother,” Curtis grumbled as he scraped his plate into the trash. “Denver McLean’s no fan of mine. He wasn’t before the fire and he sure as hell hasn’t changed his mind in the past seven years.” He found his now-dead cigarette, frowned and lit another. “Take my advice and stay away from him.”

“He’ll only be around a week or two.”

“Long enough.” Blue smoke curled to the ceiling. “Maybe you should move back here while he’s at the ranch. I don’t trust him.”

Tessa laughed. “You don’t trust him, he doesn’t trust you—this is insane.” Shaking her head, she walked to the back door. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Just be careful,” he warned, his pale lips thinning. “Denver’s not the man he was.”

“None of us are the same.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” she said, yanking open the Dutch door and stepping onto the front porch. “I know. Try and show up tomorrow, okay?”

“Don’t know why,” Curtis said, coughing.

He was right about one thing, Tessa mused. Denver had changed. Gone was any sign of the soft-spoken young man with that special wit and genuine smile. In his stead was a cynical man, hard-featured and grim, who didn’t trust anyone.

The wind, warm and moist, pushed the straggling strands of hair from her eyes. She squinted against the lowering sun, staring at the tall ranch house silhouetted against a blaze of lavender and pink. The house had been owned by generation after generation of McLeans, and now she intended to buy it.

If she could.

Gazing across the golden meadows of stubble, she watched the ruddy-hided Herefords, heads bent as they plucked at the dry grass. Calves mimicked their mothers, trying in vain to eat the tiniest scrap of straw. Maybe Denver was right. Maybe she couldn’t handle this much land alone.

But she didn’t like being beaten, especially not by Denver McLean. Pride thrust her jaw forward mutinously.

Halfway across the field, she saw him. Her heart somersaulted. Back-dropped by the fields and dusky hills, Denver looked again like the man she’d fallen in love with. He was still lean and trim, and his hips moved with the fluid grace of an athlete as he walked with quick, sure steps. His chest was broad, shoulders wide and he held his head high. The wind tossed his black hair away from his face, and his features, growing more distinct, weren’t as hardedged as they had seemed the night before.

“Where’ve you been?” he asked as he met her.

“I thought I’d check on Dad.”

“He didn’t show up today.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, he, er, wasn’t feeling well.” Nervously, she avoided his eyes.

“Mitch said he went into town.”

She couldn’t lie. He’d find out the truth soon enough. “No. Mitchell thought he had, but I took the truck in and picked up the feed.”

“I could have come with you,” he said softly, and stupidly her pulse leaped.

“You were busy.”

“Not that busy.”

They were closer to the house now, near a thicket of oaks at the corner of one field. The last rays of sun filtered through the branches, dappling the ground and casting luminous splotches on the few standing puddles that hadn’t dried from the storm.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “So, have you solved all the ranch’s financial problems yet?”

“Hardly,” he admitted, scowling.

“You could start by selling the place to me,” she pointed out, placing herself squarely in his path. Overhead, leaves shifted restlessly in the wind.

“Not without Colton’s consent.”

“So get it.”

“I will. Just as soon as I figure out where he is.”

“Don’t you have any idea?” she asked skeptically.

“Your guess is as good as mine. He’s been undercover so long he’s probably forgotten who he is.” Denver felt the muscles in his jaw tighten, just as they always did when he considered his younger, reckless brother and his passion for danger. Since graduating from college, Colton had been traveling as a free-lance photojournalist, assuming fake identities to gain the most spectacular, honest camera shots of men fighting wars throughout the world.